


Out of the Fog

by BMP



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mag7 Bingo Challenge, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF, U.S. Navy SEALs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BMP/pseuds/BMP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams of the past shed light on the present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Fog

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mag7 Bingo (Round 2). Prompt--Ether
> 
> Not mine. Alas. But if the sandbox does someday belong to me, I would still let you all come play.
> 
> Special thanks to V for the read-through and kind suggestions. You can blame me for all the errors I couldn't find and destroy. Thanks always to GSister. Without her insistence, none of these stories would ever have been.

**Out of the Fog**

Buck dreams they are back on the road, dry and dusty as bone—the road and them, inside and out. It is the stretch between the village and the trees. Across a field. They are following a guide they don't trust. And they are three hours late. But orders leave them no wiggle room. The squirrely little bugger is their only choice. 

He knows now they shouldn't be on the road.

In his dream, the bullets make a phut phut sound as they plow through their little guide. He does a twitching dance in the roadway. Round holes appear in his camo poncho as if by magic, each one sending up a little puff of red, and some trick of perspective makes it look like the bullets are coming out of him. Like their guide has become the enemy's gun. There is no time to analyze what he really sees. 

They dive into the ditch by the side of the road. 

Heads down, covered. At the bottom of the trench there is water. Mud protected beneath long grass. It stinks of filth and sewage. He can feel it seeping up into his pants. 

Helmets together, they count off. 

Their guide is a crumpled ball of green and brown clothing. The occasional bullet thwacks uselessly into his body lying like litter in the road. 

None of them are hurt. The ditch provides cover. The hidden shooters can't get range on them. But the ditch is only shelter. It is not escape. 

The shooters will either get height and pick them off from the trees or they will organize and come for them. If they are smart, they will wait for cover of darkness. 

He squints at the daylight. Beside him the squad leader does the same. 

There is little hope of escape across the open field. They wait for cover of darkness, too.

Time stills and expands. 

Snipers do not come. No one scales those tall trees at the edges of the field. He should be glad of that. They are not facing a disciplined army with a smart commander. That poses its own kind of problems.

Gunfire goes over their heads, intermittently now. The enemy wants to make sure they stay put. A good reason not to. But that's what they do. 

He counts off hours of daylight and waits. 

As the sun falls out of the sky, the temperature drops with unbelievable speed. A cold front has moved in. He remembers the heat of the day and clenches his teeth to keep them from chattering. He shifts in the filth, keeping his muscles from going stiff. A regular rhythm of tensing and relaxing. Beside him and behind him, the others do the same. 

They all know they will need to be ready when the time comes. Joints and muscles gone too stiff could mean their undoing. Death. Or worse.

By the time the light is lost, leaching the colors out of the fields and forests, fog has come. Emerging from the ground like spectral fingers it rises and hangs until it is a grey-white wall, muddling their senses. Distorting sounds. Confusing their eyes and bending what little light is left until it is useless.

He counts. What, he does not know. Just that he counts and they wait. 

An owl hunts in the forest behind them. Its call bounces crazily. He feels like the mouse. Wet and cold. Cowering beneath the leaves. A shiver runs up his spine. He cannot control it and shove it back. He lets it up and out. Tenses and re-tenses muscles growing colder.

He can see his breath.

Voices roll toward them, spooky and disembodied. They could be coming from out of the sky. Or from some long-dead world buried meters beneath them. They all listen. It is not English. They are coming at last.

Next to his head, close enough to bump helmets, Lead Dog flashes him a disconcerting white grin. All else is black. Black paint on their faces, if the sweat has not run it off. Dark uniforms. Black black black, except American teeth and the whites of American eyes.

The fog blazes. White flames and he suddenly fears they are burning the field. To incinerate them. It's easier than flushing them out. He pounces on that thought before it can run away with him. Don't be stupid. The grass is too wet to burn. It would only smoke. 

His head takes control. The fog isn't smoke. The light isn't fire. It's electric. It's kerosene. They are mounting their search.

But the wall of fog will throw their lights back at them. Obscuring instead of revealing. 

A confusion of voices, tangled-up orders. It is too hard to tell a direction the way the sound bounces.

Lead Dog taps his helmet. He listens, but the leader does not speak. He points with his eyes.

Beneath the fog there is a space. Mere inches, but a clear channel. A mouse tunnel all the way to the trees.

A hand brushes down his flank to find and grip his ankle. He understands and passes on the message.

There is an almighty commotion out on the field. The sound of an engine roaring up. But there is silence in the ditch. Until the signal comes back. 

Ready.

Up and out. Belly-down on the grass, a sliding line of snakes. Wet and glistening if there were light to see by. There is not. The light is above them, bouncing back in the searchers' faces. They would have to be belly down, too, but even then they would not see. He knows because he can't see. And his leader is right in front of him, a dark line in a darker night. The lights fall behind them. He can hardly see the leader at all now, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't need to see all of him. Just one ankle. He grabs it from time to time like a guide rope. Same way the hand behind him closes on his ankle every few feet. And so on down the line.

Sliding and wriggling along under the floating ether.

Gunfire starts before they reach the woods. 

The hand on his ankle clenches. Startled. But releases. 

They crawl.

There is no phut phut. There is no thwack. 

He knows when he reaches the trees that the enemy has lost them. Lost them in the fog and the dark.

The first brush of bark against his face is a welcome relief. 

The first chance to ball his legs under him and run crouching into the forest is a bolt of joy.

The others come out of the field. One, two, three… He doesn't count. Lead Dog will make them count off and they will know.

It is pitch dark in the trees. Out in the field, the fog flames as searchlights swing. 

They find a place to hunker down and wait. Until daylight—or opportunity—shows them their next move. He pulls his gear tighter around him, and buries himself among giant roots he can only feel with his hands. Mad Dog has slithered up into the branches. Above the fog, Mad Dog will be their eyes.

He looks toward where he thinks Lead Dog has dug in. There is no sound. It is a rest without sleeping. 

The gunfire ceases. The lights recede.

But they will come back. Daylight will bring them. 

 

 

Buck wakes with a start, cold from drying sweat, expecting to see his breath. 

There is no breath. He is home and in his own bed. Awake, he remembers. He remembers that daylight came but the woods were empty. He reminds himself that his dream is not the same as his memory. There are differences to consider. Details that matter. He counts the faces and names. He remembers they celebrated when the mission was accomplished. 

Still, it is the dream that pounds through him. He lays awake in the dark and thinks about confusion. And crawling through fog. 

It is this case. He knows. This stupid, endless, confusing case. Late nights. Dead end leads. Intel that goes nowhere. They are the ATF, dammit. Their target is out there. They have all the right equipment. They are supposed to be an elite corps of crime fighters. Hunters of bad guys. 

So why does he feel like they are the ones cowering in the ditch while an army closes in on their position? 

He kicks out of the covers and reaches for his phone. 

This isn't the SEALs. And he doesn't have to stay silent.

He dials Chris to tap him on the helmet.

The voice that answers is not sleepy. In fact, Larabee is glad he called. 

Buck can see the sly white teeth. 

On full alert now, Buck's adrenaline sings. He asks the leader what he knows. What did he see through the fog?


End file.
